Howdy. This is the latest in my lifelong series of poorly-written dispatches designed to convince myself I have friends. Also, when I turn 30 and senility sets in, I'll have these to remind me I used to be cool. With that theme in mind I shall proceed.
Where am I?
I'm on a rig. Specifically, I'm on Transocean's Development Driller 3, part of BP's Atlantis Project. Let's start with some numbers, to give a sense of scope: At 200,000 bpd, the Atlantis project is singlehandedly responsible for 3.5% of America's domestic oil production. That's a lot of oil. This particular rig is roughly the square footage of a football field and has 6 decks with people commonly on them, as well as pontoons/engine rooms below and the drilling derrick above. Tip to tip it's over 400 feet tall. It is 123 miles south-ish of new orleans and at this moment sits in 5480 feet of water. So think about the last time you ran a mile (or walked...) and imagine that length of pipe just to connect this behemoth structure to the surface tree below. The reservoir is another 10,000 feet below that.
What am I doing there?
For the last 18 months I've been in charge of developing a product called the slickline sampler. You program a timer, stick it on a string, drop it down the hole, and come up with super-pressurized sample fluid. Super simple. This is its field trial, where we put it on a string with other tools and work with textbook rednecks and coon-asses to hopefully not blow anything up. The well is "live," which means in full communication with the reservoir, so it's dangerous and I'm therefore super bad ass. I've been here since monday, and since that time our particular part of the operation has been delayed 4 times. As of this instant we dance tonight around 2am.
Who am I here with?
My work companion here is the most narrow-minded coon ass to ever be offered, and subsequently consume, the Halliburton kool-aid. I am so desperate for intelligent non-work-related conversation that I've left my food out to rot in hopes the mold will pull a Li'l Shop of Horrors and start talking to me, demanding to be fed. To those who've g-chatted, emailed, etc., I salute you. You're preserving what sanity I have left.
The diversity of personnel on the rig is startling and worth comment. From the galley hands to the BP chief engineer there are 200 people on board this vessel at a given time. Most are Transocean employees or contractors responsible for the day-to-day operations, varying in importance from roustabouts and laundry hands all the way up to driller and toolpusher (fairly awesome titles to have on one's business card). There are about 2 dozen on board with a college education at any time.
I was privy to the pre-job meeting before the well went "live" last night around 1am, and to describe that meeting requires an extended metaphor.
I am here to be Muhammed Ali's Towel boy.
There is a longstanding, determined and sincerely dedicated effort to this reservoir right now. The concentration and preparation of hundreds of people will culminate in it successfully "switching on" in a few weeks time. The dedication to the craft that I've seen evident from the engineers and hands who LIVE OUT HERE speaks of a word normally reserved for athletes with 1/10 the mental capacity of these folks - greatness. The handful of 30-year experienced vets out here run things in a smooth, safe (nowadays...) and intentional manner in an environment so hopelessly complicated that in my handful of years experience I'm still asking questions like a Mormon walking into the Condoms and More off Greenville in Dallas. The scope and success of this particular operation leaves me few other words to describe the team accomplishment in bringing the well online. Greatness. And I'm such a tiny part of it, but I damn well better be ready when they call my number and require my service.
So what's weird about being out there?
Well, everything. Meals are copious - sweatpants are the normal dress code around here because rapidly expanding waistlines are an issue. Relatedly, Offshore-Business-Casual also consists of sweatpants and a t-shirt, even if you're talking to three senior completion engineers (yesterday) with the customer. So that's nice.
I ran a half marathon Sunday in Lafayette, just in case I don't get home in time to do one in Dallas this coming Sunday, and have actually spent the majority of my time off lying in my bunk thinking of clever metaphors and popping advil. However the gym is decently sized, but contains unexpected hazards. One can easily forget you're on an ocean-going vessel, but one would easily remember it upon setting foot on a treadmill. The swaying of the ship turns it into a drunk treadmill, which is at first dangerous (yes, i fell off) then annoying, but finally no big deal. For weightlifting, as the fitnessy-inclined in this audience will attest, it's a great thing provided one has a spotter. Working those stabilizer muscles is essential, it's almost pool season.
The number of attractive women here rivals that of the finest Lambda Chi Alpha party, or living in Addison. I've seen two women this week, not counting dreams. One of them left this morning, and another one just arrived. It was pointed out to me that women view this type of work in all the wrong ways - they get treated like a princess out here, get their own change room and dorm room, and are surrounded by (sometimes) clever, (sometimes) worldly, (always) overpaid men who haven't seen another woman in an undisclosed time period. It's really a great pond to fish in. Ladies, Halliburton's hiring. Experience in absolutely anything would be preferred but not required. Just smile a lot, we'll take you.
There's wireless internet nearly everywhere, but it's too slow to do any meaningful work (Netflix, March Madness, UMF live stream). The rec room has billiards and pingpong, and my room has a TV. So it's not like I'm writing this from prison.
It's fun to go out on the aft deck by the helipad and look around. I can faintly see three or four other platforms in the distance (all in the Atlantis field). And lots of fish. And I wonder, who the hell decided this was a good idea?
What's the big picture message you're going to end this one with? Don't you always do that even though you're 25 and don't know anything about the world, and most of the people who read this are older and think "this arrogant little shit..."?
Be cool, stay in school. Don't chase women, chase money and they'll chase you. Brush your teeth. Wear sunblock. Be nice to Jack he'll be rich one day.
That's all I got. I hope you enjoyed reading some of this. And that if you didn't, you'll lie to me to spare me my feelings.
Hugs/Handpounds,
Shorthaake.
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